


The Heart of Sherlock Holmes

by Serenity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenity/pseuds/Serenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the ocean of tears after the Reichenbach fall emerged this story to help me deal with all the feelings. My first question was: What about Sherlock's pain? Everything else just followed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You said we'd never meet again,” the woman whispered.

The lone figure seemed as lost as one could be. Shoulders slumped and the once proud face dimmed to a shadow, haunted from loss.  
He stayed silent as if a word might shatter what was left of Sherlock Holmes. She read the answer in his face.

“Come,” she said and took his hand. 

*

He followed her without resistance because there was no strength left in him anymore. He had spent the last of it trying to find her. Sherlock Holmes trusted the woman because their minds had touched once. They shared an unspoken bond, the only thing in this world now that might convinced him to stay alive.

The woman made a phone call and after a few minutes a car arrived, taking them to a village in the desert.  
Holmes passed out every now and then. The woman put his head in her lap, made him drink a few drops of water. He could barely lick his lips. The sand and heat had dried them to a marred landscape, but his heart had dried first. 

She absently stroked his head, constantly asking herself what the hell she was doing. She was not supposed to care, no way, but then, Sherlock Holmes managed to not only affect her own feelings but her business as well.

Sentiment, she heard the sound of his voice, saying this word over and over again in her head while contemplating her failure. It had almost cost her her life. Although she was used to getting caught up in dangerous situations, falling in love with Sherlock Holmes proved to be the greatest danger of all.

She stopped the car.  
“We wait for the sun to go down,” she said to the driver. They parked behind a stone formation, out of sight of people's eyes.

Sherlock got restless in her arms. She felt his pulse, his head. He had developed a fever. The woman moistened his lips to make him drink.  
He complied as well as he was able to. Every gulp hurt his throat, but cooled his burning flesh the same.

“Hold on, Sherlock,” she urged. “Don't die on me out here.”

They drove into the village when the sun descended completely and stopped at a plain looking house. A man and a woman, wearing the typical colourful clothes of desert people, rushed to the car and heaved the limp body out of it, dragging him inside.

“Look after him, Sayid,” the woman said while watching Sherlock Holmes with a mixture of fear and devotion, still figuring out whether it was a curse or a gift to have him back in her life.

The couple got busy, boiling tea to combat the fever, fetching enough sheets and blankets for change. A few days of intense care lay ahead of them. But the woman trusted them. They had saved her once, too, when terrorists haunted her out in the desert. They just did that. Sayid was the village doctor, the only one until Bahawalpur.

“It's him, isn't it?” he asked the woman.

She didn't reply and Sayid understood. He came to know her way of silence, never asking questions. The money was not the only reason why he kept helping her, though it had provided a decent life for him and his wife so far.

“Watch him closely and inform me when he wakes up,” she told Amira, his wife.

Then the woman left with the car carrying her out into the night.

*

“John!”

“Bring more herbs, Amira,” Sayid commanded. “We need to draw the fever from his head.” He rubbed the cold feet of the quivering body.

“John!”

“Hurry!”

Amira brought a kettle with heated herbs and a bowl of fresh water. Sayid soaked clean towels, wrapping them around each lower leg and the man’s chest.

“John!”

“He is so restless,” Sayid worried. “Take his hand, Amira, talk to him.”

The woman did as she was told, whispering in Sherlock's ear. “I'm here, everything is alright.”

“John? JOHN. Jo..” His voice died from exhaustion. It seemed as if the gesture had made it worse.

She wet his face, his lips. “Drink, Sherlock!” but the man withdrew his head.

Sayid held her back. “Stop, dear!” and she retreated slowly.  
“Even in this state he can differ his friend's voice from all others. Apparently, it's no use,” Sayid remarked.

Sherlock had passed out again, giving in to the fever, only hearing himself screaming John's name inside his head. It was the third night marching on to the drums of Sherlock's bleeding heart but in the morning Sayid had calmed the fever down.

*

“John,” he whispered and his eyes partially opened. Light streamed in. The mind machine wanted to reel instantly but failed him, thoughts trying to form desperately into any kind of meaning. A face appeared before his eyes.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” a man said. “My name is Sayid, this is my wife Amira,” he continued, gesturing towards a woman. 

The only thing Sherlock recognised were their clothes. The fabric, the way they wore them... He must have passed out in the desert.

“You are safe here.” the man continued.

Sherlock had heard that before. He wanted to get up but stopped instantly. His head felt like a cloud of wasps all buzzing at once.  
“Who are you?” he asked, holding his head up.

“You were brought to us by Nadia.” The man offered his hand.

Sherlock hesitated. He didn't know any Nadia. He was sure of that even in this drowsy state of mind. But the man had such genuine eyes, he may really believe in what he said.

“She will come, my wife will bring her.” He took Sherlock's pulse.  
“You were lucky, Mr. Holmes, but you need time to recover. Please rest. No harm will reach you here,” Sayid said.  
Sherlock felt a familiar sting in his heart.

“You are in good hands, Sir. We brought your fever down. I'm a doctor...”

Sherlock's world suddenly darkened again, a well-known darkness, and Sayid's voice drowned in a single word that opened all wounds again.

Doctor...  
JOHN.

A woman entered and Sherlock recognised her. His mind had reached 50 % of its usual capacity. Enough to remember the last days.

*

He had faked his own death.

Faked it to save the only people who counted: Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, and Lestrade, the insecure but helpful detective. They had given him a quite tolerable existence but everything... everything had still been shallow and incomplete before John had entered his life.

The army veteran, alone, empty as well, but with a hidden spirit and warmth that had melted the cage of isolation around Sherlock's heart, simply by admitting that he was amazing, brilliant. Nobody had described Sherlock Holmes' methods that way before. And then something happened to him. He cared.

John was the reason he got famous and almost accepted by the police officers who saw him as a threat. The same officers who had finally helped deconstructing his image into one of a dexterous criminal.

Sherlock had feared John might believe the lie. But never, for a second, did he. Sherlock knew he would die to protect him, protect them all from Moriarty. This was when Molly Hooper came in.

She had asked him if she could do anything to help and Sherlock for once had really seen her. What bravery inside, what perception in such an average mind. Molly was the only one who had looked behind the mask of his ever distant face during the hunt for Moriaty. She did count, Sherlock learned when he told her his plan to vanish.

The fall.  
He had fallen much deeper than the man who jumped from the building. His heart still crumpled to the distorted form it had been before John Watson. He could feel the cold growing back inside every day. 

The funeral.  
Sherlock could not remember how he had managed to watch the scene from afar. Seeing John mourning at his grave had almost been too much.  
He hated himself for doing this to him and Sherlock had so wished to die in that moment because the pain was about to kill him.. But he didn't.  
He wanted the punishment, burning eternally in this agony. It was the least he could do and the only way left to be joined with John. Hurt forever, like his friend, his only friend, just to be sure he was safe.

The day after Sherlock had started running, leaving England for an indefinite time. He had to let Mycroft in on the secret because he needed to flee from London, from everything about John. Sherlock did not care about his feelings nor the reason why he had sold out his own brother, he just could not leave the country without Mycroft's help.

The disguise his brother had provided worked. He got on a train through the Channel tunnel. 

His body gradually ceased to answer him. Pain spread from his heart into every cell. Complementary to it emotions ascended from a bottomless pit of his heart, sabotaging his thoughts. His eyes burnt from all the unwept tears that so desperately wanted to drown him. 

It was the first time he really feared to lose the battle. Whatever enemies had crossed his path so far, he had never felt anything but excitement. He loved it because there was nothing worse than being bored but losing John Watson felt like losing himself. 

While the train hastened through the tunnel Sherlock welcomed the thought that tons of dirt covered him. He wanted to be buried, he wanted to stop feeling.

In France he rented a small flat, as small as possible. Every room seemed too big without John. Painkillers drugged the fire inside him while he contacted people he could trust. Thinking straight forward became ever more difficult. In a far corner he already feared to turn into an ordinary man. But at this time it promised to be a relief rather than a disaster.

After four days the seat in the plane to Islamabad was booked. He purchased a new phone using his old number. His passport got accepted. Sherlock did not dare to use his right name so soon, though no government held a warrant against him. The arm of Moriaty might be long and enduring even after his death and Sherlock was far from being done with him.

When Sherlock departed the plane he had not eaten for several days. Usually his body coped with lack of food but this time was different. His soul was endlessly bleeding and the drugs ate the rest of his stamina.

He met with a man who worked for an old colleague. Tobias wasn't aware of Sherlock's situation. He had been largely ignorant even through their days at college. The only one Mycroft had not talked into looking after Sherlock and reporting him when his little brother threatened to compromise the British Nation. The man tucked Sherlock into the next plane, flying deeper into the country his ancestors had once ruled. More hours of transport waited for him, including an old Jeep and in the end a camel.

Sherlock's level of exhaustion had reached a critical point and his stomach had twisted with the thought of riding this shaky desert ship but they were the best transport means to the village of his destination. It was the only place in the world he had a chance to survive the next days, assuming he arrived there alive.

It took them another day and night and Sherlock forced himself to eat what his companion ate. Staying alive. When they arrived at the borders of the Cholistan Desert he could barely walk but he did not mind. 

The ever torturing thoughts had fled his fading body and Sherlock Holmes felt, surprisingly, nothing but relief. He stumbled forward, sipping from the water bottle, only wearing one of his neat trousers, covered in desert sand, and a white buttoned shirt..

That's how he met Irene again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All beta glory goes to dear lilith!

The couple left the room and they were alone.

For a few minutes they did not speak, like two fine hunters probing the area, the scene, drinking in the possibilities though neither had any intentions to slay dragons right now. Sherlock noticed her hair, neatly trimmed under a large white scarf. She did not put make-up on, which he thought suited her. Nothing could diminish her beauty. Sherlock was so exhausted that he had to close his eyes again. Too much input for his wounded mind.

She took the chance and went to his bed, carefully avoiding touching him. That also might be too much. Irene watched him closely. He was almost starved to death and she wondered what kind of punishment of the past made him stop eating when his life got either very exciting or unbearable. 

“Dinner?” she asked somewhat joking but mostly insecure about how on earth she should talk to him now. Truth was without food he may not last the day.

Sherlock shook his head.

“I will stay,” she added as if she understood his quietness best.

Sherlock remained silent which had to be a good sign. Irene sent for Amira.  
“Fetch me some soft bread and warm milk with honey,” she said and Amira brought a tray with the requested food. Irene thanked her and they were alone again.

“I'm not leaving your side until you eat some of this. Do we have a deal?”

Sherlock nodded slowly. He was beyond shame. He had hit the ground.

It tasted awful to his senses but nurtured his sore stomach. Sherlock felt like a wounded soldier in sick bay. His heart had gone to war, dragging his whole body into a desperate fight. How could he make it stop bleeding?

After a few bites, the warm milk and the honey merged to a familiar flavour in his mouth and suddenly he was back in 221b Baker Street where the smell of milk and honey impregnated the air every evening. Mrs Hudson always drank it because she was convinced it helped her sleeping. 

The shields, they were gone. It was too much. The plate fell from his hand to the floor and spattered the food all over it. He covered his face, turning from the woman.

“Sherlock.” she exclaimed, springing from the edge of the bed.

She could not know. She would never understand and Sherlock was not able to explain to her, to anyone, what Baker Street 221b meant to him.

Irene inhaled deeply.  
“Look Sherlock, I'm not a nurturer. I can give you shelter, food and medical care but...” she broke up for a moment. “I can only help you if you are willing to take it. And...” she paused again.

The man knew. She was undercover as well and nobody could see them together. They must be so careful. He had once made sure she was safe but at the price of leaving her. 

How it all repeated itself. Why did he have to leave the only people he loved just to know no one would harm them?

“Sleep, Sherlock, you need more rest. I have to leave for another week. They will take care of you. Promise me you will eat more.” Irene demanded, at a loss how to be with him.

He nodded, still not turning his head back to her. She kissed his tousled hair goodbye then she left the room. He could hear her talk outside. Sherlock shut his eyes but the picture of John standing on his grave would not go away.

*

The days passed and the couple learned not to talk to him unless he was ready to. Sayid monitored his condition barely noticeable to Sherlock. He was grateful for it. 

They earned his trust. 

Amira and Sherlock had a deal. She only left when he ate a few bites. So she sat at the table with him forever if necessary just to make sure he put some food inside him. She was not impressed by anything about him. Amira just followed orders and Sherlock admired her determination. It reminded him of a part of himself that had vanished what seemed ages ago. Eventually he ate just to be alone again. 

The nights were cold and long. He stared at the ceiling for hours following the shadow patterns the moon painted, watching his mind create order again. 

At the end of the week Sherlock had gained enough strength to walk out into the backyard. While he stood there the sunlight crept through his skin. Its light was betraying his heart that rather craved darkness, yet life demanded his presence mercilessly. 

His disabled mind had stored determination away as long as he needed to focus on survival only, but the thoughts were flowing ever more coherently now. He was able to “read” and even manipulate people again.  
It strangely hurt him as if something inside Sherlock refused to build that wall anew. The next meeting with the woman would have to prove the stability of his heart. Irene surely wanted a reason for his sudden and dramatic arrival.

One day later she returned, watching him sitting in a small chair in the back yard. The sun had coloured his pale face during the last two days and she could not help but adore this sight. Death had turned his back on Sherlock Holmes. 

She could almost recognise the man she once loved.  
“Feeling better?” she asked.

His eyes flew open and he got up. 

She slowly walked towards him. Every step brought his aura closer to her, filled with life again. His body still frail and weak but returning to this world as well. 

Only a few inches separated them now and he carefully touched her hand. The sensation felt like a reunion, a memory coming to life again. He was almost back, she could feel it.

They looked into each other's eyes. “Thank you.” he whispered. 

She nodded silently. They drew a few breaths together, saying everything just with the passing air between them. There was no world where their love was about to become reality, still this woman was and would always be the one to him.

“So, you still live here?” Sherlock asked when the greeting was done and they had retired to his room.

“Actually, I have a few temporary residencies.” she replied not willing to reveal any of them. “It's an advantage to live in a country with strong morals considering fashion.” she added, half-veiling her face with the shawl on her head.

“I know.” Sherlock remarked. That's why he had been able to rescue her from execution in the first place. Disguise was a fashion in this part of the world. “I assume you never stay anywhere for a long time.”

“No, of course not.” Her eyes searched for the man she had known but no matter how careful she looked into his face, something was missing. “Tell me what happened.” Irene said and sat down with him.

Sherlock lowered his gaze. He usually didn't give interviews about his personal life but coming to the woman meant hope to stop this fall and he could not do only with food or medical care. 

He strangely wanted to be understood. He had to tell the unspeakable to see if his breath could outlive the truth. 

Sherlock stared out of the window. The lack of noise from outside made him hear his own heartbeat. It raced violently now that she had asked him so bluntly. It wanted to pour out the poison Jim Moriaty had fed him with.

“Sherlock!” her voice interrupting the hammering in his ears.

“Yes!” he said. One deep breath, one straight look at her. “Two weeks ago my greatest enemy dared me.”

“James Moriarty?”

Sherlock's face twitched. She smiled at him. “I may live in Pakistan now but the London trial of the century didn't escape my attention.”

His eyes searched for a point he could fix on. This name, spoken out loud made his head spin, causing him nausea. Breathing became vital, suddenly being more than just transport.

“And you escaped him by faking your death, Sherlock? How awfully clever. How did you do it?”

“I had help.” he replied with an almost steady voice.

“I see.” her mouth curled. “I presume your friend Doctor Watson played a considerable part in this scheme, but why did you leave England without him?”

That was the moment his hands started shaking.  
The glass of water he had just drunk from slipped from his hand, crashing on the floor into a thousand pieces. He looked at her in terror and was about to faint.

Irene rushed towards him, right in time to catch the almost collapsing figure. She cried for Sayid who entered the room in seconds taking over the limp body and carrying it to the nearest chair. They both held him until he returned to consciousness. 

Sherlock had thought he could hear it, even say it himself but instead he had fallen out of his mind right into his empty heart, the naked and most unprotected place. The drums were back. The hell he had been going through while quitting his cigarettes was a walk in the park compared to this pain. This time he could not just escape it. One might force nicotine out of one's system but how did you quit love? 

Irene's face went white and blank when she drew the conclusion. “He doesn't know.” Simple deduction. “Oh my God, Sherlock!”

He nodded weakly, his face burning, his head feeling like a bell constantly ringing. His ears hurt from the infinite pulsing.  
“He thinks I'm dead.” His voice trailed off.

She took the man in her arms, burying his head in the crook of her neck, her dress getting soaked with his tears. No sounds were heard but sobs rippled through his body like earthquakes. He could not stop them for quite a time.

*

Eventually the shaking diminished and Sherlock passed into sleep from exhaustion. 

Irene Adler was no therapist but no harm in that. All Sherlock Holmes needed was a soul that already knew what he could not name, standing while he faltered. She kissed his still head, the curly, damp hair smelled of herbs and adrenaline. 

The woman stole out of the room, going to the kitchen where Sayid read the paper, occasionally sipping at a glass of tea. She sank into a chair.

“How is he?” Sayid asked.

Irene, too, took a sip from the glass that Amira had just poured her.  
“Bad.” she answered, thoughts miles away sorting out possibilities. The fever might be gone but Sherlock Holmes needed more now to recover, to be himself again. 

Himself... she mused. Could he ever be himself again without John Watson?

Sherlock felt shame, an emotion he had not come across since Mycroft had accused him of sucking at chess when he was eight years old. Weakness was not necessarily something to be ashamed of but a weak mind meant that Sherlock did not really exist right now.  
Emotions he normally only noticed from a far distance contaminated his thought process and a fear crept up his spine. 

He could not function without John any more. 

As long as they had worked together Sherlock was not aware of it but now... Mycroft had been right. Here he lay, broken like an old watch, the clockwork out of service. 

*

Two hours later he cautiously entered the kitchen. Irene still sat at the table, texting. 

“I need to leave.” Sherlock spoke into the silence.

“Yes.” she answered without looking up. “Our car is leaving in an hour.”  
Sayid and Amira were nowhere to be seen. 

Sherlock walked towards the table.

Irene looked up.  
“Are you sure you are ready for the next step?” 

“No.” he replied surprisingly honest. “But I have to.”  
He could walk again, thinking was still sore but under the circumstances, tolerable. 

Pain only stopped the world until it changed into ire and ire needed to be transformed into a plan. Otherwise it fell to waste or worse, turned against its owner. Sherlock's heart was still bleeding. He had to ensure it to be whole again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, after a year I came around to finish my story. More chapters will come.  
> Thanks to lilith for beta.

In a flat of Copenhagen Street, London, Molly Hooper had coffee. She took it with milk and enjoyed a late Sunday morning in bed. The many cushions filled the empty space quite nicely. Yesterday evening had been a disappointment. Her friend Charlotte promised to bring a colleague of hers but instead she had not turned up at all, whining and complaining on Skype about her mother who may or may not destroy her precious marriage. Molly moaned. Marriage... this woman has got nerves. How about a boyfriend in the first place? Working at a morgue at thirty two, nothing to look forward to but dead men, Molly felt quite dead herself sometimes.

She turned the TV on, watching news when the message arrived. She reached over the table to her phone and thank God she already sat down.

_How is he? SH_

Molly Hooper surely wanted something to happen in her dull life but Sherlock Holmes might not be the right man for this. Her fingers trembled while answering earnestly.

_Alive, still. MH_

She waited, the silence thankfully broken by some news about the latest results from elections in Glasgow and a huge fire in the south of London.

_Keep him that way. Expecting reports regularly. SH_

That was all... Molly sat frozen on her couch. Why on earth did she put up with this? There was nothing in it for her but his trust, probably all she would ever get from him and truthfully maybe all she could handle when it came to Sherlock Holmes. Molly smiled vaguely when she realised there were only a handful of people Sherlock had ever trusted and she was one of them...

This thought revived her heart. Oh, wicked Sherlock! Molly got to the bathroom to clean and dress herself. She put some lipstick on, the one Sherlock had told her being an improvement to her face. She smiled again. Sunday might become her new day to look after John Watson.

+

She walked down the empty street, people keeping indoors for a nice Sunday breakfast. It was still March and the sun did not invite them to dine outdoors yet. A few dog-walkers and joggers passed by her. Eventually, Molly reached the bus station and soon the red vehicle arrived, transporting her to the square where she knew to find him.

Molly exited the bus and looked around. Tourists marched the busy street, a single musician stood in a sunny spot, hoping to impress them with his tunes. She drew the jacket up to her neck, still March, still London.

When the traffic lights changed Molly crossed the street to the little café. From afar she had already spotted him. The same table, the same chair since the world of John Watson had come to a violent halt. So, Molly did not only help Sherlock to fake his death. Now he had also entrusted her with watching out for his only true friend. All he had said was something about familiar faces but truth was, Sherlock only trusted people he loved. That was what Mycroft Holmes had told her though he officially denied to possess any knowledge about his brother's heart. That was the reason Molly Hooper put up with this.

During the last two weeks she had merely watched John from a distance, never showing herself, let alone speaking to him. He had not been able to talk anyway. Now Sherlock had asked her to take the first step.

She entered the café, pretending to look for a table when her eyes reached the man with the empty face. He did not realise her standing just a few large steps away from him, of course. John Watson was not really here. Molly walked towards him, recognizing the cup of coffee, no sugar.

And a lit candle in the middle. Her heart hurt.

“John. John Watson?” she said when the figure turned in astonishment. He had to walk back a long way out of nowhere until he answered. “Oh,... Molly. What, ehm, a surprise... to see you.” he stammered while offering a seat at his table.

She sat down. Now what? They both shared an awkward moment of silence, staring from their nervous hands out of the window and back again, only glimpsing at each other. Their mutual level of insecurity had always been balanced by Sherlock's presence but now they stared into the same gaping hole but from two very different angles, only the amount of hurt was the same. How could Sherlock do this to her? Forcing her to watch John die of loss before her very eyes while she knew better. Molly shut her eyes, pulling together. Sherlock had explained it to her and she had freely acceded as her ordeal. The survival of John Watson, the success and reward to all the hardship that lay ahead of them depended on her strength and endurance right now.

“I happened to pass by looking for a café to have a decent breakfast when I saw you sitting in here. So, I thought you might not protest to...” He took her hand to still her voice. It felt cold around her fingers, sending a chill into Molly's heart. “I'm glad.” he whispered, the dimmed words cracking halfway. Molly squeezed his hand and smiled a little. He faced the window again to distract her from his tears.

They just sat in silence. Molly ordered scrambled eggs and a hot chocolate, something to warm her again. John watched her eat as if he could not remember what it looked like.

When Molly had finished her meal John still had not spoken a word while she had entertained him with some random facts about her life. She explicitly avoided work information. John Watson looked quite alarmingly like a few of her clients himself. “Well, it was nice to see you again, John.” she remarked. “Do you happen to be here every Sunday?”

He looked into her eyes. She flinched from the emptiness of his own but held his gaze. “Could you come again?” he finally asked.

She took his hand. “I will.”

'Thank you' his lips formed silently. She nodded and got up. He helped her into her jacket, an automated gesture of old school Dr. Watson but Molly appreciated it. She had to get out of the café very quickly now.

Outside she gazed at the man at the table once more, taking in the heavy London air while fetching the phone from her purse.

_Everything is fine. MH_

She paused and her lips tightened from the painful lie of these words.

_Hurry! MH_   Molly added and walked away.


	4. Chapter 4

The hot desert sun burned his face when he read the last word of the message. It soon might turn his face into a scarlet red. But Sherlock Holmes did not mind right now because he could not feel it. 

The car windows open, he could at least breathe. Irene sat by his side in silence, texting away, too. They agreed on taking Sherlock to the heart of Islamabad, right to the British embassy. Mycroft had left a message there, knowing where his little brother might head when his best friend was forced to think he was dead. Irene had found a powerful ally in Mycroft Holmes ever since he had learned that she had not been executed. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Mycroft rather worked now and then with this highly intelligent creature than fighting her. It had grown silent around Irene but recent events brought them together again. 

“When we reach the embassy, our paths will separate, once more.” she said while Sherlock resumed staring to the front road. 

As an answer he put his hand down, lightly touching her fingers encircling the phone in her lap. Irene inhaled deeply. There was nothing more to say because she was in no position to assist him further. A broken heart had followed her to the end of the world. Irene could not mend it but she had managed to kindle this spark of life inside him again. 

 

After a four hours drive Sherlock wasdropped off two streets from the Diplomatic enclave in Islamabad. Local clothes veiled his western shirt and trousers underneath so that he would blend in with the other pedestrians. He walked quickly, fumbling for the ID that was supposed to get him through the gates.

 

The British High Commission was a rectangular house in all regards with a dull fifties charm of the last century. Though Sherlock chose logic and cold facts over sentiment and emotion, he preferred architecture that added another dimension to the mere function of “a roof over one's head”. 

“Your ID, Sir. Please!” the gatekeeper demanded.

Sherlock handed him the prepared card and waited. The doorman checked the data. Sherlock observed his face, drawing conclusions by habit. He was not entirely sure what Mycroft had prepared for him but the officer confirmed his status as a government agent. He liked that.

“You're beingexpected today, Mr. Watson.” the doorman said.

Holmes mouth twitched when he heard the sound of the dear name but his face stayed unreadable while the gates swung open and he entered the building. A woman approached him on the stairs, slim and with a worn face from either climate or work strain. Sherlock did not bother to delve deeper. He was consumed with scenarios awaiting him behind the doors of the High Commission. 

The air changed when they entered. Climate control machines transformed the foreign weather to a hospitable, Middle-European standard. It was a pleasant diversion considering the two peels of clothes he wore.

They walked upstairs to the Commissioner's office.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Watson.” the woman said, pointing to a simple but elegantly furnished corner with chairs and a table. 

Two people passed the floor, watching him from a distance and greeting him politely. Sherlock just nodded in response. With every minute the heat crept back. He just wanted to get rid of the disguising wardrobe but he choose not to, not now. First he needed more information.

“Mr. Thomson awaits you, Sir.” the woman returned and guided him to the room of the High Commissioner. The interior of the floor showed nothing of the English pomp of the Monarchy but spoke of governmental plainness and functionality. The walls were painted in a light beige which needed refreshing, covered with a picture of the Queen on the wall behind the desk, the Prime Minister to the left and collages of the latest event in the building near the door. Children, clad in traditional clothes laughing into the camera, holding up self-made pictures. Sherlock only got a glimpse of the event's name.

Adam Thomson, current High Commissioner of Pakistan was of average height and even more average charisma. The face with the glasses reminded Sherlock of an old Harry Potter who had forgotten his magic and served the Ministry instead, like his brother. The painful thought of Mycroft brought him right back from the seducing realm of deduction to the present moment. 

“Mr. Watson, I have orders to grant you every access to our network. You may stay for a week or two, if necessary, in our quarters. We prepared the guestroom on the second floor.” Thomson lectured like a Hotel Director. 

Sherlock could see the resentment in the man's eyes. Mycroft had probably left him in the dark about everything concerning the visit of his brother. And no ruler of any house liked to host a mysterious guest. 

“I assure you, I work quick. You'll barely notice I'm here.” Sherlock said.

“That's what concerns me most.” Thomson replied, his face unmoving.

Sherlock glanced towards the picture of the Queen. The glass reflection of the Commissioner's computer monitor answered his unspoken question. 

_Level Five security case._ The faint outlines of the logo aside filled in the last information he needed.

“Dinner is every evening at eight.” Thomson broke the silence.

“I respectfully decline.” Sherlock saw no reason to show himself to everybody.

“Will you need an assistant?” the other man asked.

Sherlock paused, letting the question sink into the hole that opened by asking it.

 _Yes, I do, badly._ He watched the pleading words passing his mind but an all access internet connection and someone who brought him food and fresh clothes every day had to do for now.

“Only for basic needs.” Sherlock replied instead.

Thomson nodded. “Speak to Ms. Turner, my secretary. She'll arrange everything.”

“Thank you.” Holmes said and showed himself out, leaving the poor man to his own conclusions.

 

The room was habitable, small but a comparatively large window let the afternoon sun illuminate even the farthest corner of it. So the morning hours promised indirect lightning, perfect for work. A laptop sat on the sparse table, a fruit basket alongside.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” the woman said, standing surprisingly close to Sherlock all of a sudden. “I’ll send for one of our housekeepers. We have them here around the clock. If you need anything, anything, they'll be at your service.” She was, pointing to a small terminal with three different buttons, one for the kitchen, the housekeeper and the secretary of the building. Her perfume had merged with the smell of her moistened skin, hinting to an increased level of adrenaline. Sherlock wondered why. He could almost feel her pulse against his skin. Still it escaped him that she might simply feel attracted to his appearance. It was just uncomfortable to him like the whole situation. He yearned to be alone.

After a few seconds she just smiled and left the room. The door closed and Sherlock sank down on the bed. He folded his hands right over his stomach, very unusual for him. But his mind desperately wanted to relax, he could feel it, the thoughts broken into fragments.

He closed his eyes and the lack of vision brought him in contact with his Solar Plexus. It hurt. It really did. Transport or not, he needed something to fill this pain. He pushed the first button. 

“Yes, how may I be of service.” a voice with a Pakistani accent answered immediately.

“Chicken soup and bread, Please.” Sherlock ordered. “And cake.” he added.

“Very well, Sir. It will be ready in half an hour.” the voice answered.

“That'll do.” Sherlock released the button.

 

He observed the room. One little door indicated a separate bathroom. Suddenly his body remembered all the heat of Pakistan. He pressed the middle button and ordered fresh clothes from an equal accented voice. They would arrive in fifteen minutes. Sherlock stripped all of his wardrobe and finally he could wash the past hours of travel and tension from his body. Water could do this and make room for fresh thoughts.

He shut his eyes for a moment.

 

The clothes came and the food. Sherlock took it to resume the game. Evening dawned and he decided to spent it in front of the laptop, browsing for information. The access to a few of Mycroft's databases proved to be very useful. His brother owed him and he let him spy some delicate data under one condition. Sherlock had to report what he was planning to do. He smirked when he thought of the promise. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would not reveal his ideas until absolutely necessary. His brother had tried to bargain, information on the case in exchange for informationabout John's doing. 

Sherlock paused. He knew his brother would draw this card on him that was why hehad inducted Molly into his plans. Only one day had passed since her last text message. It had to be enough, otherwise he risked everything. Molly's orders were to wait until he contacted her, a little release, to know he could ask her any time.

 

Sherlock searched the whole night for locations, names, wrestling strategies. He had told Mycroft to transfer his extended case analysis database to his laptop so he could spare time on thoughts he already had catalogued and stored away. In the morning hours he slipped into a light sleep, letting the brainwork of the night settle into his unconscious system. 

Dreams emerged, always the same. John standing at his gravestone, drowned in pain and no matter how loud Sherlock called his name, John would not hear him. He constantly awoke with a sore throat as if he really had screamed in his sleep.

 

Sherlock ordered breakfast at nine am. The food was palatable and sustained a constant flow of his thoughts. Concentration was vital to his endeavours during the next days. John had been right. Proper food, proper thinking. When the excitement overtook Sherlock he did not even remember eating, he became the case, every detail lived through his soul, analysed, outweighed and turned into a part of himself.

John had become his keeper, made him eat, put him to sleep, tended to his database, blogging away, pulling Sherlock into the world. Constantly. John made him human. 

Sherlock missed him everywhere, his insight, his corrections... his heart. Moriarty had thrown them both into this hell and Sherlock was the only one who could pull them out again.

Leaving the house was too dangerous so Sherlock spent the rest of the day either gathering furtherinformation or sitting on the well protected balcony plotting his next movements. In the evening when dinner arrived his phone beeped with a message. He looked up from his computer and his heartbeat increased immediately. Molly was not supposed to text him for several days. Mycroft would not text at all because of the risk. Sherlock hesitated to pick up the little thing, the few possible scenarios running amok inside his brain. But eventually, he did.

 

_I can't do this. JW_

 

Sherlock threw the phone on the bed. First his hands, then very quickly his whole body was shaking. He suddenly breathed very hard. Adrenaline flooded all his systems and he desperately wanted to flight. His composure crumpled in seconds and in a far corner of what was left of his mind he recited the signs of PTSD. 

Sherlock lay down. He had seen John doing it occasionally when he thought Sherlock would not notice. Sometimes lying down was the only thing to pass the next moments.

 

Sherlock calmed down, slowly. 

His thoughts returned one by one. Though he always refused to rely on anything superstitious or religious he now prayed to every possible spirit that he would recover quickly. 

 

After some ten minutes he dared sitting up. Though his vision was still clouded from the shock he managed to reach his phone. It was real. Someone had texted him as John Watson. Sherlock remembered instantly the purchase of his new phone. How he had insisted on his old number. His mouth twitched. Maybe his therapist had told him to text to Sherlock's number in order to heal, believing it lay somewhere out of service since his owner had been dead. So that “someone” really was John. It cut him to pieces.

 

But the worst was not John texting him, no! The worst was that he could not reply.

 

The text alarm rang again. Sherlock flinched. Silence. The shaking did not return but a conviction that shoved the feelings away, replacing them by sheer determination. He inhaled and exhaled two times. If this was also part of his self-made purgatory he had to live in it until he could be reunited with John. He would endure it, until the end of his days, if necessary.


	5. Chapter 5

The days of John Watson happened as constant grey rain, following him everywhere. He sat in his flat on a pre-spring afternoon. Two and a half weeks he had been alive, so far. 

Alive... Sometimes he was not sure if alive was the right word. Nothing much else crossed his mind. He was numb as if he could not ascend out of a severe narcosis. Mrs. Hudson came every day, pretending to bring food or do some dusting though John knew she just had to make sure he was still there.

Alive... he sighed. How so, if he felt like the better part of him lay buried beneath this gravestone with the remains of the one man he had ever loved without a single doubt? 

Those were his days. 

The nights differed.

Sometimes John just sat in his chair, staring out of the window without focusing anything. Sometimes he walked through the neighbourhood, avoiding bridges, escaping Lestrades' phone calls who had made a habit out of calling John at two am when he did not send his daily text message. 

_Still here. JW_

It was ridiculous. Even his therapist had proposed to text everything he needed to venture to Sherlock's old number. How on earth should that bring him peace, when Sherlock was dead? 

_Liberty in death, the only true freedom._ The well-known line from the Baskerville case crossed his mind. He felt a sudden urge to text this. His very first message had mostly been a helpless joke but a part of him wanted to try. Strangely, he had felt a kind of relief after sending it, though ten minutes later he found himself lying on the floor dissolving into a mess of tears. He swore never to do this again. 

Texting to Lestrade was no problem. But why to Sherlock? John unconsciously twiddled with his phone, tossing the thought to and fro. Maybe the name appearing on his screen made the difference. 

John started browsing through his address folder. There it was:

**Sherlock**

**221b Sherlock**

**Sherlock Brother**

Could there be more Sherlock on his phone? He had not even bothered using his brother's real name, probably for safety reasons... John knew better. The ring of his friend's first name even in his head by just reading it, had always made him happy. Now it struck him down.

John sat down, letting the big lump press against his throat. He closed his eyes, watching violent thoughts rummage his brain. Could there possibly be a suitable name for this dead number? A word that brought his own words back? 

John opened his eyes and it hit him. The therapist always insisted on John saying that Sherlock was dead, a word like **death** itself. Everything got buried under it. Like a good soldier John desperately wanted to obey the experts, clasping to the first person who told him by profession how to deal with this impossible situation. 

But Sherlock was still alive in him. If he denied that, he buried himself as well. What if he pretended that this number was not dead? 

Emotions build up inside him so quickly, he had to get down to the floor again. But it was okay. Everything was better than the numbness of the last days. John would deal with it. He had to, in order to come back to life, a life he still lived with Sherlock Holmes and he would continue to do so as long as it may take, as long as he felt him inside his body and soul.

“Wherever you are Sherlock, maybe you're really only in my head.” John said into the empty room. The name in his phone remained with the number. He wanted to face it by texting to it, even if the message ran into nothingness. At least he could say whatever he needed to tell Sherlock Holmes or what he had never said while they both had lived together.

John sat still, thinking, feeling his words emerge. Tears rolled down his cheek, fingers cautiously wandering over the display of his phone. He exhaled once, deeply, and pushed the send button.

_I'm alive and I miss you. JW_

Thousands of miles away there lay a man in his bed, very still, but crying so loud in his mind that he feared to get deaf from his own internal screaming. How was he supposed to concentrate on his task while John had decided to penetrate the new, still fragile membrane around Sherlock's heart, again and again? 

He breathed deeply. _Think, Sherlock_ , he forced himself. God, he could not afford to break down every now and then just because of a few words unexpectedly beeping out of his phone. Let alone the risk of using text messages at all. Moriarty's helpers still walked the streets, not only in London and not only the streets. They sat behind desks, cleaned apartments or managed banks. They ran websites in more than one other part of the world apart from Great Britain. The madness was hidden in the details. Sherlock could not fight it on two ends.

Molly Hooper had just left the morgue when her phone beeped. 

_Tell him to stop. SH_

She needed a few seconds. That definitely had to end being so emotional all the time. Damn, Sherlock! She read the message again, trying to focus on the facts. Molly did not need to deduce around the corner to understand who “him” was but she refused to guess at Sherlock's intentions. She was done with this.

_Stop what? MH_

_Texting me. SH_

Molly gasped. How had John gotten this idea? A meeting was due but there were still four days left until Sunday. God only knew how many messages he sent to Sherlock until then. Molly paused in the busy street of St. Bart's, thinking very hard about this matter that stretched far wider than the borders of England. After a few seconds she wrote a text. 

_Reply, just don't send it. MH_

Molly stood frozen to the spot, hearing the cars and the people passing her by, waiting for an answer. The phone beeped.

_Convenient. SH_

Molly shook her head. All Sherlock. The phone beeped, once more.

_Thank you, M. SH_

Her face brightened. Molly Hooper hurried along to the bus station. 

*

John Watson still sat in his chair. 

That went well. This time he did not even have to lie down. Maybe this could work. 

He went to the drawer, fetching a piece of clothing from under his jumpers then turning to the only mirror in the flat. John watched the strange figure reflecting it. He tied the blue scarf he was holding around his neck the way Sherlock had always done it. It smelled like a wonderfully entwined but fainting mixture of their body scents. Alive... as long as it may take. John would sleep two hours that night, dreamless. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Folder JW (unsent):**  
 _I miss you, too. SH_

_No lights in Baker Street. JW_  
 _Poetry? SH_

_Silence, always silence. JW_  
 _Noise, always in my head. Want some? SH_

_Where are you, S? JW_  
 _I'm here, always. SH_

_Lestrade is a dick! JW_  
 _The least irritating one. SH_

_Why, S. Why? JW_  
 _Forgive me! SH_

_My blog is dead without you. JW_  
 _I'm not dead. I'm sorry, J! SH_

Sherlock's replies were still Sherlock's replies but he was glad no one could see his face in the dark.

*

Pakistan was a vast country but there was only one person of interest in it, well, apart from Irene whom Sherlock had not contacted since his arrival at the High Commission. 

A man, living in the great valley of Indus, the largest river of Pakistan. He used to work for Moriarty and Sherlock had to find him. Disguise material was sparse in an official British house of government but after another week Sherlock had not only gathered enough information but grown a small kind of beard and cut his hair to only a few millimetres. 

The weather in Islamabad differed from the one in the desert and would once again in the valley. He wore traditional male clothes only, a Pakul and a desert bag with a few things for survival. He thought his look to be hideous but practical and while Sherlock was working he still relied on any kind of useful masquerade. He left a note for his brother and took his phone.

_Found a new flat. Mrs Hudson understands. JW_  
 _I do, too. SH_

The Indus valley was as long and unpredictable as Sherlock's journey back home. Fortunately, he would not need to follow its course all the way to the ocean. The Pakistan railway brought Sherlock as far as Dera Ismail Khan, a rather unfortunate city, on the west bank of the river in the Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa Province. Floods and suicide bombings had marked the otherwise peaceful place.

His man lived right among the dwellers and all he needed to do was to frequent his favourite tea cabin and to follow him. Sherlock forgot about John for a few hours, indulging himself in the hunt for a henchman of Moriarty.

The weather was fine, clouds covered the sky and made the temperature bearable. Sherlock observed the scene pedantically, sucking in every detail, watching people tend to their business. The yellow tea cabin stood gloomily detached from the otherwise greyish background. Men gathered around it at this afternoon hour, squatting, some louder than others. Sherlock did not understand a word but he knew what he was looking for. He was used to waiting and observing for hours if necessary and although he already felt the strain of the day settling into his bones, his mind remained untouched by it. 

The day turned dark, men came and went while Sherlock sat on a stone wall opposite to the cabin. He just wondered if his man might turn up at all when a tall figure, carrying a greenish bag around his shoulders caught his attention. His senses sharpened to a peak in seconds. He had found him, and although Sherlock still stood a few meters away from the man his brain calculated the possible angles of attacks and conveyed the information into his extremities. His muscles tensed, ready to answer his commands. Sherlock walked over the street. The man had bought his tea and bade the salesman farewell. He did not linger, so Sherlock could go through with his plan following him. He remained alert to any sudden alteration of the scene but the man simply strolled down the main road to a row of small shops not far from the city bazaar. 

Sherlock saw him enter one of the shops which presented considerable difficulties when it came to a fight. He stuck glued to the man's heels, always cautiously avoiding that he noticed him. Sherlock waited a few seconds before entering the shop himself. Quickly he adjusted to the surrounding. There was a back door, like a separate entrance to the apartments above. The man talked to a boy at the counter. Sherlock realised, this was the man's business and the boy probably his son. The similarities of their faces struck him. Could be a brother, too. Family might prove to be an advantage in the game he soon intended to play, a weakness to be exploited if necessary. Hopefully not. The man really entered the back door after talking to the boy. Fantastic! 

Other clients walked through the door, perfect diversion. When the boy got busy selling, Sherlock pretended to look at a pair of shoes lined right beside the back door. Without a sound he slipped through the door, closing it carefully. He only got minutes to find and confront his man until the boy would notice the missing customer. He hastened upstairs, tracing the smell of rice and spiced tea. Sherlock hoped to find the apartment empty except for his convict. He did not want to drag innocent women into this. Sherlock stopped. A rumbling noise came from the room across the floor. He breathed in inaudibly a few times, no sound from the room on the other side. The man was alone.

Sherlock fetched a pen Mycroft had given him. He fumbled until he found a small button on it. Mycroft should rather have applied for James Bond prop department than secret ruler of the British Government, though both were probably not that different in the end. 

In his mind he played the possible scenarios again. Sherlock waited three more seconds when he finally lunged forward into the room.

Surprise played out in his favour. The man dropped a can pressing himself against the table. He automatically reached for something, probably his gun. Sherlock expected this and now his pen caused a sudden and severe disorientation. The man swayed. Sherlock grabbed him, pinning his body to a chair nearby. He was no Pakistani. Everything in the room conformed to Sherlock's observation. The man gasped for air, screaming did not work since the gas had caused a rather dry mucosa in his throat as well.

“You will talk to me.” Sherlock said.

“Who...who are you?” the man asked in an accent free English tongue.

“Doesn't interest you.”

“What do you want?”

“You failed him.”

The man went pale under his tan searching for the failure he had never committed.

“He is dead,” the man said.

“Wouldn't count on that information.”

The figure trembled under Sherlock's grip. Moriarty surely spread his terror until this very house.

“You know what happens when he isn't happy with what you're doing. I'm here to collect your debt.”

The man wriggled, his body still struggling with the effects of the gas plus his growing fear that his former master might still live to squeeze the final debris of loyalty out of him.

“I don't have it. My contact in Germany hasn't answered my calls for two weeks.” he stated. 

“The more reason to give me something in exchange then.” Sherlock knew about the nameless army of people who never appeared on any paper or database. Everybody who worked for Moriarty feared them because nobody knew them until they appeared and demanded money or any other debt. Moriarty had secured his ass from every possible direction.

“What do you want?” 

“Information about your contacts.” Sherlock waited to let the man process his words.

“He will never accept that.”

“Oh, I make sure he will.”

“Really?” A faint hope dawned in the man's voice. He was not the brightest of Moriarty's henchmen but surely the most anxious. An English gentleman, flown from his own country to the middle of nowhere but frightened of a lively ghost whom he still owed. Convenient.

Sherlock forced him to open his files on the little laptop he was hiding in a drawer, downloading what he needed. More names, locations and most important, debts. Henry Fisher, aka Ismael Runin in Dera Ismail Khan had been an archivist, a collector and practically one of the network sources keeping and handling all kind of information of the Moriarty empire, most intriguing, a large amount of oral agreements. A powerful position bought by Moriarty covering a vicious crime that Henry Fisher had been a part of and a lot of money he had gotten out of this.

Moriarty had assured that even after his death the network would threaten people further not only by collecting debts by faceless vigilantes. Every member knew something in advantage to another, anything that came in handy during a crisis. Brilliant, brilliant spider web. Unravelling it probably was the most challenging task of Sherlock's career and he delighted in the fact that it already crumbled. All he needed to do now was to destroy the file system after retrieving the data and a lot of Moriarty's men would simply cease to be a threat anymore. Everyone but three.

Sherlock snatched the stick, safely storing it away in his bag. He slowly moved away from the man.

“Am I relieved from my debts or will you kill me anyway?” Fisher asked, looking like a man with nothing to lose anymore. It may dawned on him, that this life, built on crime and a terrible mistake afterwards, had reached a point where all roads lead to perdition.

“You have signed for death in the first place and you know it.” Sherlock said gravely. A shout came from downstairs. It was the boy. Sherlock looked at the man intently. Henry Fisher replied: “Everything is fine.” The boy understood English and obviously he was used to customers disappearing through the back door. 

If it were not for the throbbing rage inside Sherlock's heart he might have pitied the man and his family, knowing what soon was about to happen to them. He fled from the apartment, the shop. 

Sherlock Holmes never heard the bang of Henry Fisher's gun. The family reported a violent murder to the police, but they only found a man who had committed suicide. 


	7. Chapter 7

_New flat is empty. Still waiting for you. JW_

_Never stop. SH_

 

 

“How do you feel, John?”

“John?”

“Sorry, I can't.”

 

*

 

John woke up at 4 am, as always. The city was quiet. John hated silence, though it banged against his soul incessantly, devouring every day a bit more of what was left of his fear to vanish forever. What came after that? His therapist never answered this question. A life without Sherlock? John still rejected the concept. And he rather bathed in the pain of his absence than lapsing back into the life of nothingness before Sherlock.

It was Sunday, again. John turned on the light, being awake in darkness worsened his depression. Yes, he finally admitted it yesterday when she asked him how he felt. Though Maggy thought he was still in shock, John knew better. He was close to the state before he had met Sherlock, only the pain made the diference.So, a dead man was what kept him alive. John felt like a freak from a twisted fairy tale. Still something to go on. 

He stretched and got up. The bathroom mirror revealed a ghost, eyes dark and bleary, stubble from the past three days. Freaks wore beards, did they not? John averted his gaze, searching for the razor. He may encountered Molly again, a reason to look presentable to the world. The left corner of John's mouth arched up a little. Molly's face was enough motivation for a proper cleaning. After finishing he pulled one of his striped jumpers and blue denims out. Coffee at 5 am. No food, not yet, just as every day. Half past five he left the flat, the collar of his jacket tucked up against the morning cold. The blue scarf carefully twined beneath. 

John took the first bus to Campden Street, leaving at the little Pratt Street bus stop and looking over to St. Martin’s Garden. The old burial ground had become his favourite spot since Sherlock's grave was the most impossible place to go for John. If he did, he probably could never rise again from the ground. Maybe one day, with Mycroft, but Sherlock was here now, close to him, everywhere in London, not some random cemetery under a shiny gravestone.

It was dark, still, soon the first strands of light would taint the sky in a dawning grey. The cold abated with every step closer to the garden. John entered, inhaled as if a hidden scent was waiting to pour into him. He had no clue what kept him returning to its realm. John walked the few paths up to the Mound, a tiny elevation in the park where sunbathers spent their afternoons in the summer. 

He was alone now and grateful for it. The old gravestones gathered randomly around him like mute witnesses of his bearing. He inhaled deeply, once, twice...

Weeping came easily in their presence. 

John felt the warm fluid wetting his cheeks. This was how being alive tasted right now, like a salty stream of water, eventually washing away what could not linger. He stood there for a long time, waiting for the sun to collect him. A breathing tomb figure among the dead.

John reached for his phone. 

 

_I don't know if I can ever say you're gone. Maybe, but not today. JW_


	8. Chapter 8

The Pakistan railway rattled through the slopes of the barren hills. Sherlock sat among fashionable young men in suits and a group of school kids, wearing their house uniforms. It was a strange sight though Sherlock considered suits just other kinds of dressing dictates. Far back he spotted three women clad in colourful gowns, chatting away and providing a warm contrast to his plain neighbours. There was no threat from anybody. 

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, lowering his defences but tightly clasping at his bag and the stick which content he intended to acquaint very soon. His mind fell into a kind of dream-awake state between the realm of two realities. He loved this place where hidden treasures of his unconscious waited for him, the connection between him and the universal consciousness. A vital part of Sherlock was still alert to everything that surrounded him but another part sorted data and sometimes opened up to unexpected conclusions.

Sherlock considered every possible situation he might encounter back in Islamabad, but mostly he fathomed the possible reactions of his brother. He needed to contact Mycroft. He even had to meet him, and his brother clearly knew a lot better how they could accomplish that. Sherlock usually refused to work with him, relying on him. But this time was different. He would have done anything, even making a contract with the devil once more just to have this one man back in his life. Nothing else mattered anymore until he could feel John's presence again, hearing his voice and looking into this face that brought all the reason back to Sherlock's life.

 

It was late afternoon when Sherlock entered the British High Commission of Islamabad again. The housekeeper showed him to his room. Sherlock took a shower, a pleasant relief from the last days strain. He actually ate something, even thoughhis brain was already busy sketching the events of the next day. He had stipulated a certain message with his brother when he needed a plane or to meet with Mycroft. He fetched his laptop from the drawer, giving the signal to Mycroft's secret account. Texting was still too risky. 

Sherlock's next stop had to be Germany, Berlin, to be precise. The late Henry Fisher had given the most valuable hint. 

Germany was pretty much central Europe and one could not find a better hiding place than in the metropolis of everybody. Sherlock had visited the city more than once and gotten a fair knowledge of the complex traffic system, street names and different cultural habitats that provided all kinds of possibilities to slip by unnoticed, but most important, two of Moriarty's last dangerous henchmen currently lived there. Getting to them meant closing in on the most vicious one, but this needed completely new planning Sherlock was not ready to think about, yet.

He spent the rest of the day and most of the night browsing through the stick's folders, devouring as much data as possible, expanding the knowledge of Moriarty's web.

Mycroft had acknowledged his message and sent a meeting time and point, carefully encrypted in a private code that still worked perfectly though the brothers had already invented it during their childhood. All that mattered then was playing with their massive intellects by having a blast in deceiving their parents and housemaids. Happy days of a mostly painful time of rivalry between Sherlock and Mycroft. His brother still surpassed his abilities, only the different path they had taken to make use of it made their relationship tolerable and sometimes useful. In fact, since he had met John, Mycroft's grip seemed to have lessened to a degree Sherlock almost found bearable, even occasionally helpful. 

Sherlock looked up, it was three o'clock, which meant 10 pm in London. He breathed in and out a few times, sitting very still, listening, his eyes directed to his phone, counting the seconds...eight, nine, ten...then a text alert cut the moment. Sherlock picked up the phone.

_Molly saved me today. She took my hand. JW_ _It was mine. SH_

 

_*_

 

Next day the plane took him first to Abu Dhabi, a layover Sherlock used to stroll up and down the hallways of the airport. Sitting and thinking needed a break though he loathed the human crowd squeezing through the airport, now and then blocking his way with their luggage, conversing in all kinds of languages. And the smell! All the different odours made Sherlock sick to his stomach. He would gladly dismiss the food on the next plane, definitely. A few more hours and the cloudy sky above Middle Europe greeted him. Berlin Tegel airport, not the most fashionable sight of the city but Mycroft's car waited to pick Sherlock up.

They met at a citadel, far from the centre of the city, situated in a sleepy, post-industrial borough of Berlin. The sight breathed ancient history and only a few tourists strayed here at this time of the year. Still, a cafe in the yard of the old fort was open. Both men sat vis a vis, with tea steaming from their glasses, just silent for a few moments.

“How is he?” Sherlock asked.

“You would know. He texts you.”

“How do you...ah, Molly, of course.” Sherlock said, feeling painfully transparent to his brother once more.

“He wouldn't talk to me. Made that very clear at the end of our last conversation.” Mycroft answered, visibly uncomfortable about the memory of it. 

“Why should he? You let this happen.” The loathing in Sherlock's voice was subtle but unmistakable.

Mycroft took his tea glass and sipped at the hot fluid, swallowing hard. Getting caught by his brother with his guard down was something he usually tried to avoid, but it did not help the current circumstances. He had to step out of it or atoning for his failure would become impossible.

“I am here now,” he said, looking into his brother's eyes, re-imagining the moment of his deepest downfall, when John had left his room, disappointed. It was the moment Mycroft could not pretend everything he had done was a necessity of national security anymore. That normally disconnected him from every emotion that might conspire with the outcomes of his work, but this was Sherlock, his little brother, who had won the only competition they both shared equal chances in: finding true love. 

Both men had made sure that nobody would enter the fortress of their hearts, but never intentionally. Their upbringing and rare intellects had singled them out of the pool of common people's dating patterns and rituals. Loneliness became a lifestyle and Mycroft had settled into the comfortable knowledge that his brother would at least never outsmart him. He had not expected to be left behind by Sherlock in his own solitude. 

How could he have ever imagined John and what he did to his brother? He only marvelled at it, again and again. It had melted his icy attitude towards Sherlock and through shone his raw love for the brother. Mycroft went through a hard time dealing with this but he could not go back. John had unveiled all these feelings, damn little soldier, braving his way straight into the hearts of the Holmes brothers.

Sherlock looked back at Mycroft, observing genuine intentions in his face to help him. “You do this for the sake of the Empire?” he asked.

“I do this for you.” Mycroft answered immediately. 

Sherlock nodded slightly. His brother never said such words imprudently.

 

The remaining conversation circled around strategies and their usual components. Sherlock did not convey his whole plan to Mycroft but as much as he needed to get the necessary tools including security clearance cards for otherwise sealed doors.

“That was productive, thanks brother.“ Sherlock said while shutting down his laptop.

“How do you manage?” Mycroft asked unexpectedly.

Sherlock froze for a second, sighing inaudibly before he decided how to answer this blatant question.

“I text him back.” 

And without further details on the matter he left a baffled servant of Great Britain in the yard of the Spandau citadel, looking quite like a prop of the ancient scenery himself.


	9. Chapter 9

“He didn't lie to me,” he said.

Molly Hooper almost dropped her spoon when John blurted out his first words so unexpectedly, well, ever since they had started to meet regularly in the sleepy café. Her mind rattled, fishing for a proper response without giving away her secret. Damn, Sherlock!

Molly smiled, a weak, insecure simper but John did not notice anyway. He looked through the window again. Sometimes she wondered if he forgot she was sitting next to him. At least John returned to the café every Sunday and did not object to her keeping him company. That was a small victory. Molly touched his hand again. John looked at her, a bit startled, as if he had been disturbed in his own world.

“He didn't.” she said softly, swallowing the unbearable emotions.

John's eyes lit for a second. “So, you don't believe he was a fraud, too, Molly?”

“Never,” she replied and now she smiled wholeheartedly.

He squeezed her hand and Molly got a faint idea of the former strength of Doctor John Watson. He was the reason why no one could ever take this place at Sherlock's side. Maybe Sherlock had just waited his whole life to meet John. And then it was just him, always and only John Watson. Molly sighed.

“Can I ask you something?” she said as if she feared asking ordinary questions without warning might harm him.

“Hm. Sure.”

“What are you doing during the week?”

John lowered his gaze. 

“If you are uncomfortable then just forget it.” Molly remarked.

“It's all right.” he said quietly. He sighed. “Not much.” sighing again. “My therapist still thinks I'm suicidal.”

“Are you?” Molly asked ever more bravely. She could do this. She could do this for Sherlock, for them.

“I don't think so, no. But then, everything is blurred by my anger and...,” then he had to stop, shutting his eyes. The café suddenly felt awfully crowded to Molly and inside her rose a strong urge to protect him. She took his hand again. “Do you want to leave, John?”

He just nodded. 

Molly paid the bill, took her coat and pulled him out of the café into the streets of London. He followed her indifferently when all of a sudden he remembered her question. “I visit St. Martin every day.” he said.

Molly halted, looking at him. “The old graveyard?”

John nodded. “It's quiet in March.”

“Is that what you need, John, quietness?” she asked.

“It's all I have.” he answered.

Molly stood with him for several moments, trying to figure out what to do. This man clearly was depressed, maybe even suicidal and she was no therapist. But Sherlock had told her to watch over him. What was she supposed to do?

“Would you like to meet people?” she asked, deciding to stick to the things she **could** do.

John looked at Molly and her genuine attempt to help him unclenched the fist around his heart a bit, feeling for her. “You know, he had no right to treat you the way he did.” John said very clearly.

Her cheeks flushed and she intensively stared at her shoes now. Although Molly felt embarrassed by his sudden display of insight she marvelled at the resurgent spirit in his remark.

“So, would you... would you like to...I don't know... go out sometime? I could bring a friend... just one, you know... if you like.” Molly offered in her pristine and lovely way.

“I'd like to try, friend is okay.” John said though he had no clue what he might get into with this commitment.

Molly smiled. “Okay. I'll keep in touch.”

John nodded. Breathing had become easier after that. He watched her leaving for the bus and then took one himself to the place of quietness. John Watson found St. Martin's Garden quite crowded this time. Spring dawned, life knocked on every door.

_I'm alive, really. JW_

_I love you. SH_

*

Sherlock had been wrong. Berlin did not look the way he remembered it at all. Like in London the building industry never slept. Beside countless new and posh apartment houses there was always room for another shopping centre or office building in the city. Berlin was still considerably smaller than London but more important, homeless networks did function everywhere for Sherlock's needs not to mention a few satisfied customers of the past who gladly offered help of any kind whenever he visited the town.

One of them was Frank Hoffman, a jeweller and owner of a security company. Sherlock usually did not socialize with rich business people but the case of the missing diamond ring proved to be a pretty exciting time, and four years ago he had spent a lot of it in Berlin, searching for the ring. After that, Hoffman had insisted on keeping in touch with Sherlock and two e-mails a year did not even hurt the high functioning sociopath. Besides, in the days when Sherlock had worked all by himself he learned that one never knew when old associates might come in handy. 

Sherlock had arranged a meeting with Hoffman at the park near one of his apartments. This one resided north of the central city amidst reconstructed, over 100 years-old buildings that attracted rich folk like horses attracted blowflies while the former inhabitants had fled from the disgustingly high rents. 

A significant amount of women with designer-fashion clad babies sitting in equally fashioned strollers crammed the park. Sherlock felt like a light beacon among them without a toddler at his feet.

“Believe me, Sherlock, you only attract attention when you're not dressed like them.” Hoffman looked down at the figure beside him. “Your coat and scarf are doing just fine.”

Sherlock's mouth twitched in response, half- bemused, but mostly annoyed. He would probably never get used to German English. It was an assault to his ears, grammatically and phonetically. But who could dwell on such trifles when in need for help in a foreign country? So he shut his ears to the emotional part of sound and opened up to information only.

“How long will you stay?” Hoffman asked looking across the playground to an ambulance peacefully standing at the other side of the park.

“Five days.” Sherlock answered.

“Any requirements apart from the usual stuff?”

“Internet and a bed will do.”

“My housekeeper has stacked the fridge.” Hoffman said. “Food, you know.”

Sherlock did not respond to that.

“Food only, Sherlock. If you need a lab, just tell me.” Hoffman added a bit agitated, pulling a bundle of notes. 

Sherlock refused. What were Mycroft's credit cards for? 

Hoffman sighed. Sherlock had never been much of a chatter but he owed him. Sherlock had helped him to conceal a delicate affair, saving his marriage, but most important, his reputation of a trustworthy jeweller. Once you lost that you were done in this business. Hoffman could never adequately repay him. 

“Goes for anything else, just text, okay.?” Hoffmann threw the keys. Sherlock caught them. The ambulance was gone. He watched Hoffman leave in his Bentley, perfectly blending in on the streets full of Mercedes and BMW. 

Sherlock walked across the street, entering the house, that looked far more dilapidatedinside than its pretty front might suggested and hurried up the stairs. He settled to a 120 hours' stay, not touching the fridge once.

*

Sherlock Holmes was not a killer but Moriarty had made sure he would contemplate that part of his human existence more than he wished to. He walked the emptying streets of a different part of night-time Berlin, passing huge, cubic flat-monstrosities, bereft of their purpose long time ago. They were remnants of a departed dream; food, work and shelter for everybody. The new system had swallowed it and spit out abandoned rooms, now refilled with society's losers.

Sherlock felt like home. Though he would not remain static like these terrible excuses for an accommodation. He knew where to find the killer's lair. 

Two boys approached him. Sherlock fumbled for the red banknote in his pocket. His hand remained inside of it. His contact had only spoken of one messenger.

“Is vor 'ner halben Stunde eenkoofen jegangen, da drübn.“ his contact said in a slang version of German waving his hand towards the supermarket which illuminated the whole area with its advertisement lights. 

“He went out for shopping half an hour ago over there.” the other one translated. Sherlock understood. He nodded and reached for another red banknote. The boys took them as if trading information for money was their everyday business. Sherlock vanished around the next corner. He never saw them again.

Meeting a killer in a house full of people might be a disadvantage, so Sherlock waited for him to leave the shopping area. 

Time crawled. Finally, his inner clock turned 10 pm. He held his phone tightly in his left hand, buried in his coat pocket. Sherlock prayed the killer would step out at once. He feared the sound, the vibration, the light of John Watson’s message. The door opened and a young couple came out, carrying their huge plastic bags to an old Opel model. They laughed and Sherlock wished they would start the engine though no car could din loud enough now. 

The vibration came first. His hand trembled from the jolting phone. The car started the moment the text alert set off. The car left the parking lot and Sherlock Holmes fought the urge to open his messages. He had to stay focused, he had... 

The killer approached the door.

Something inside Sherlock went blank, ridding him from all emotions, making room for pure reason and action. He waited for his prey to go in one direction then he followed him. He had forgotten about the message, focused purely on his goal. When the distance from the shop had become reasonable Sherlock stopped him with hard metal gouging into the man's back. 

The stranger froze. Sherlock waited for an unexpected blow. He stopped breathing but nothing happened. So he said: 

“Follow me,” in a deep, threatening voice. The man obliged his order.

They walked side by side like friends and if it would not have been Berlin but a small town or village Sherlock would not stand a chance of abducting the man without further notice. In a narrow passage they lingered. “What do you want from me?” The man asked.

“Answers, and your life.” Sherlock replied. 

“Who sent you?” 

Sherlock contemplated the question and the true answer would not make any sense to the man so he stuck to his own policy.

“Talking is inside,” he said and pushed the man along. They passed another block when they finally arrived at a small, abandoned hut, formerly used as a garage but now rotting away.

They slipped behind the pitted walls, facing each other and Sherlock saw the trained face of an old hunter, an army veteran of the former GDR. Sherlock knew one or two of their kind, working in his favour. This one had joined Moriarty's army. His rage had led him straight to the devil's net. Gerd Bernsten had trained Moriarty's European assassinators in shooting. All of them. Fortunately, he was pretty old by now and his body strength waned. Abducting him an a dark street? Sherlock would not have stood a chance against him ten years ago.

“I know nothing of value,” the man said with a steady voice.

“Let me be the judge of that. Your men, how many are still active? And I want names!” Sherlock demanded, pressing the gun to his opponents head now and winding a cable around the man's wrists. Bernsten knew the battlefield and if Sherlock had learned anything from former army veteran John Watson, then that soldiers functioned best under life threatening circumstances.

“Who are you?” The man asked and Sherlock could almost hear Bernsten running possible scenarios of If's and Why's in his head while playing for time.

“Doesn't concern you. I have to inform you that everything you can think of has already crossed my mind. You will obey my commands. Your master is dead,” Sherlock said very calmly. 

He knew that the true masters of Bernstein could never die because they lived like icons inside his head, still promising a bright future. You could not kill an idea especially one derived from modern myths or legend. Moriarty had just slipped into their empty space, becoming a legend in the man's head as well.

Still, Sherlock did not care. He would risk the impossible to extinguish the last vital remnants of Moriarty's web. Bernsten still maintained connections to all his former trainees. Moran and his companions were a few of them. 

The man stayed silent and Sherlock made a call, bravely ignoring the symbol of incoming messages on the display of his phone. He watched Bernsten whose face remained the same dead mask all the way. About ten minutes later a car approached. Sherlock stepped out of the hut, dragging Bernsten behind. The pale yellow taxi stopped to pick up his passengers. 

“Where are we going?” Bernsten asked somewhat baffled by the carefully planned abduction. 

“Where I will find my answers.” Sherlock replied and tapped on the driver's shoulder. A woman in her forties hit the pedal and the car flew down the main road to the west, into the next districts. Bernsten dawned who he was about to meet again very soon.

The text message stayed hidden for the next hours.

*

The taxi drove slowly in the narrow streets of the northern end of Berlin. Bernsten sat still and Sherlock commanded the woman to the right place just by tapping her shoulder. Vera was his closest contact in the city and personal taxi driver. She knew exactly what he wanted, how to appear with her car and vanish in minutes. She always knew where he was.

The row of houses thinned and soon they approached a small tenement of three apartments. Sherlock told her to stop the car before it could be seen by the residents. He tapped a message on Vera's shoulder, telling her to hide a few blocks away but to be ready at all time. He wanted to keep her from harm as well as possible.

They exited the car and Bernsten mumbled something unintelligible. Lights were out though Sherlock saw a slight movement of a curtain through strands of bushes in the window of the first floor. He was home, like Sherlock had expected.

He fetched his phone. “You will tell him exactly what I tell you,” 

The man hesitated, suddenly realising what was going to happen. Bernsten thought about his daughter who refused to see him anymore. He regretted that he would never be able to tell her how her mother died. Sherlock kept staring into his eyes with an utter coldness. He could let the man shoot him but Bernsten rather died by the hand of an old comrade so he complied and spoke into the phone. “Ilia, the bear moved home?”

Then he disconnected.

Sherlock nodded, waiting for the light behind the curtain to turn off. It did.

A man approached the door. Ilia Sachnow, a Bulgarian, ex-soldier, like Bernsten, and his most faithful companion until three months ago. Bernsten had trained Sachnow's son Arvid who had died during his first mission. Sachnow blamed Bernsten, arguing that he had not been properly trained but Sherlock knew better. The reports of Henry Fisher were highly enlightening. It was almost too easy.

Sherlock forced Bernsten out of the shadow, his gun the most persuading argument. Sachnow reacted immediately. He threw a knife without hesitation.  
 _'The Master of swords, excellent!'_ Sherlock mused as Bernsten hit the ground, releasing a last cry of agony. Sherlock remained hidden.

Sachnow investigated the body. In the dim light of the night Sherlock could only see fractured features of an old man who still aimed with the perfect eye of a warrior.

“He would have revealed all my secrets.” Sachnow uttered into the empty street.

Sherlock stepped out of the dark. “I know.” he replied simply.

Sachnow moved closer, not intimidated by Sherlock's gun. “He was my friend, Mr. Holmes, but with James Moriaty there is no such thing as friends with honour.” 

Sherlock nodded.

“Did he smile when you killed him?” Sachnow asked.

“He shot himself.” 

Sachnow laughed unexpectedly. “He always talked about killing himself when he defeated you.”

“He did not defeat me.” Sherlock said.

“No, he accomplished a far greater task.” Sachnow whispered when both men only stood one meter apart. “He broke your heart.”

Sherlock's face paled and fortunately the darkness swallowed his pain. Of course he knew. Sachnow was one of his most intimate confidants, almost as dangerous as Moriarty himself and he carried another knife in his hand. 

Then something unexpected happened. He threw his weapon to the ground.

“You have to shoot me, Holmes. If you ever want to feel safe again, you have to.”

Sherlock watched him, astonished, an unspoken “Why” lingering between them.

Sachnow cleared his throat. “I'm old, Sherlock. His games tired me. I wanted to leave him but I could only hope to outlive him, because he'd never let me go with all these things I knew. Seems I won,” he smiled again. “and I don't mind dying by the hand of his greatest enemy.” Sachnow lifted his arms in a surrendering gesture.

Sherlock's mind raced. The plan changed in seconds, adapting to the sudden turn of events.

He lowered his gun. “You were right,” Sherlock began. “What he did was much worse.” He paused.

Sachnow closed the remaining distance between them. “I know where Moran is hiding,” he whispered. “I presume you can take care of the others yourself.”

Sherlock's head felt like burning. “I already did.”

Sachnow nodded. “Leave a message when you get the tickets to London.”


	10. Chapter 10

Her name was Mary. She is not the friend Molly promised to bring along. John spotted her across the table while Molly and Susan chatted away. It had been obvious from the start that Susan was of no interest to John. There was no chance to fall in love because John still was, deeply and painfully, merged with Sherlock or at least with the lingering image he had drawn for about 18 months.

Mary laughed a lot. Her smile warmed John and he found himself looking over to her a few times. Molly noticed and maybe she would have said something to return his attention any other evening. Now she only felt sorry for Susan. She was single and every meet up with a man held potential for more than a nice drink and a chat.

John remained the gentleman. He drank his beer, smiled a bit. Between conversations he looked at Mary.

Could he love again? Watching Mary stirred a forgotten part of him. 

She sat with another woman, beautiful, too, but without this genuine smile. She got up, probably heading for the loo while Mary fetched her purse. They were about to leave! John skipped thinking and acted on impulse, leaving his table, closing the distance to her quite rapidly. What was he about to do? John stopped at her table, smiling, walking on to the door. This was stupid. He could not leave.

“Ehm, you dropped something.” Mary said. 

John froze. He did not carry anything. 

John shut his eyes, turning around, slowly. He felt the whole pub staring a hole into his head, but when he opened his eyes only Mary looked at him. She played along. God! A wave of energy rushed through him and his spirit felt rekindled. John walked towards her. 

“That was awkward, I'm sorry, I'm usually not that..” _That what? “Stupid, insecure” or better, “bruised, crippled inside”?_

“Okay.” Mary responded with that smile that told John everything he needed to know.

“Do you come here often?” he asked, seeing the other woman exit the toilet. His breath quickened, hands moistening. It was now or never.

“Mostly Saturday, yes.” she replied. 

“What's your name?” A pause “I'm John,” he added quickly.

The waiter brought the bill. Mary paid him, adding a generous tip.

“Mary.”

“I'll see you then.” John said while getting up. The other woman shot him a suspicious glance.

Molly Hooper had watched the scene. She did not resent him. In fact, Molly was happy to see a new spark of life in John Watson. Susan simpered bravely at her side.

_Tonight he met a_ _woman_ _. MH_

 

_I understand. SH_

Molly lay in bed, staring at the words. She could feel how much they hurt him.

_Tonight I felt alive, a bit. JW_

_Shall I remain dead, John? SH_

Two days later he started to date Mary. She was a teacher with a four year old son, Benedict. John did not like the name. It reminded him of his days in Catholic school where Brother Benedict ruled with an iron fist. Though John had always tried to stay out of trouble the monk got to every pupil once in a while. He bore resemblance to John's father, a military man, relentless and distant, though loyal to his family. 

Mary refused to introduce her son to John. She was careful and protective of him. John approved of this. 

They just went out to the theatre and had dinner a few times. He felt warmer each day, but the nights told another story entirely. Since John had started to date Mary the nightmares had gotten very intense to a point where he had to admit their excruciating effect on his emotional state. 

Mary noticed and soon John had to reveal a few facts about the loss he had suffered recently. He had rather kept this to himself, but that meant to hide what he really was made of these days. Mary listened to his story, but the water held back in John's eyes told more than his words. She sighed inwardly, and at their fifth date in a Chinese restaurant she asked him:

“Why are we dating?”

John looked at her, astonished. “Well, because I love being with you.” He searched for better words. God, why did she demand an explanation?

“But you are not, John.” she responded. Her face almost expressionless, hiding disappointment.

“Why are you... saying this, I mean... I am here.” he stammered.

“Listen, John. I know men like you who live with a hole in their heart, hoping I might fill it. But I tell you what, I can never fill this kind of hole because I am neither your mother nor a cure for the friend you lost. I am a woman, John. I want to be loved and held and I can only give you that much.”

That struck right to the core of John Watson, and though it hurt even more than the hole in his chest he wished everybody would be as honest to him as Mary was right now.

He looked at her. “So, this is it?”

Mary nodded. “I'm not looking for a best friend, John. My wall is plastered with their pictures.”

They left and parted in silence. It was about 8.30 pm, still time to avoid his flat and think about her words. 

BEST FRIEND. John was bloody good at this. He was the best one in the world.

_'I would have followed you'_

Was that what best friends did? Die for each other...? John froze as a thought struck him. He had to stop walking. Sherlock? Did you? He fetched his phone, writing a message to the abandoned number:

_Did you die for me? JW_

_Always! SH_


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft was not at all amused about Sherlock bringing Sachnow to England. Officially, he was dead, at least to the British police. And Mycroft had to make sure it stayed that way. Sachnow had conspired in a scheme against the British Monarchy, all communist he was. Moriarty used him to get Mycroft's attention. That was before he knew about Sherlock and his greatest weakness. In the end Moriarty had tried to beat Mycroft as well. Find their soft spot and let them dance. That was his game. Well, it had been and Sherlock was determined to end it completely very soon.

About a month had passed when he last saw his homeland. The weather in London was as unruly as his heart. 

They passed the controls easily. Mycroft's people had cleared the path. Sherlock intended to vanish from his brother's radar as soon as they exited the airport. Sachnow's face was serene but Sherlock was not sure how much he could trust him. But for now it had to be enough. They separated. In the evening they were about to meet again.

*

 

 

John entered the morgue. The smell was painfully familiar. He wished he would not remember. When Sherlock had died John was not allowed to see his body anymore but the hours he had spent in Molly's office just to be near him had carved this smell into his brain.

He visited Molly frequently. Sometimes they went for dinner. Her face warmed his empty days. She was a wonderful woman and one day he feared to fall in love with her just to stay close to Sherlock's memory. She did not deserve this.

“Hey, John!” her voice rang out to him.

He smiled.

Molly locked her office and John offered his arm. She lowered her eyes. Molly was not used to this gentleman behaviour but she definitely liked it.

“Where to, Dr. Watson?” 

“Surprise.” he whispered.

She chuckled. They had given up on pairing him off with other women. Instead they enjoyed each other’s company, a wall against the pain and grief, completely sufficient for the time being. 

*

Sherlock had planned everything so very carefully with Sachnow’s information. The ex-soldier cleaned one of his guns. No blades? Sachnow could cut through a single vein from every position. Moriarty always kept him at bay, making Moran his closest associate. Moran, the sniper, the best, blindly following orders. And his order had been to kill him. He would still see to that. Sherlock sighed. He had to confront this last man. He stood between John and Sherlock now.

Sachnow came closer. “How did you do it?”

Sherlock looked up. “Do what?”

“Fool Moran.”

“I did not. I fooled my friend.” he answered quietly.

Sachnow smirked. 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Just curious.”

Sherlock blinked. 

“I need to go tonight.” Sherlock said, hiding the reason. Sachnow was a tool. He better not forgot this. “Send your text.”

*

John and Molly set out on the tube. He made her close her eyes all the time. Eventually, they got out and walked through the streets when finally Molly heard the noise of the city fainting. John whispered something but not to her. Then they entered a door and the air warmed up. It smelled like flowers and rain.

“Open them.” he said and Molly looked into a house of trees and flowers, amazed beyond words. 

“Thank you for staying with me all these weeks.” John said. This was something he had wanted to do for a long time.

She smiled and clasped his hand, blinking the tears away. They went on, peeling off their jackets. “Kew Gardens' Palm House, John.” Molly's voice cracked. It was her favourite place in London. “How did you...?” 

“I didn't. Lestrade told me.”

Molly smiled and averted her gaze, pretending to study the tree in front of her. Oh, how much she wished Sherlock would come back.

*

 

 

'Had there ever been a time when John Watson was safe?' he mused sitting quietly in the nearly empty house. The clock was ticking in his head. He saw him in a mirror, walking down a path, almost too comfortable with himself.

The gun clicked.

'Oh, you think you are so clever, hiding behind your pet soldier. You think you are safe as much as John Watson does!' Moran thought.

'But I get you, both of you, for killing him!'

Night dawned and he waited, for Sherlock Holmes to fall into his trap. 

*

John and Molly still walked through the palm house, when the shooting started. 

After the initial shock John went straight into combat mode. 

He shielded Molly with his body, his eyes quickly adjusting, scanning the area. 

Who would open fire in a green house? 

“We need to get out of here.” he said. Molly nodded briskly.

They ducked their heads and searched for the exit. This proved to be difficult. All he saw was plants. Closing time was near, fortunately. There were only a few people strolling along the way.

Another shot.

John hurried to a sealed area, dragging Molly with him. “Shh.” he put his finger on her mouth. Molly trembled. It should not end this way.

*

Sherlock held his left arm. Blood was dripping onto the body beside him. He panted, nervously observing through the plants in front of him. He knew it was a bad idea to lure Moran here, but there had been no choice. Sachnow had done what Sherlock expected him to do. Betray him. Now he was dead but his blade had caused enough damage to slow Sherlock down. The wound cut deep. Fortunately, Sherlock had studied his skills long before he decided to trust him. Now that probably had saved his life. 

He waited for Moran to take the bait, to swallow the diversion. A plan within a plan, casualties were to be expected along the way but Sherlock had no other options. He waited but it stayed quiet on the assassins front. 

Then he saw a very familiar foot treading the ground. Sherlock paled. No, NO! That was not the plan. He froze and far away he heard the shot of the sniper's rifle. 

Seconds stretched until he could move again, forgetting about the wound, the plan, just lunging out of his hiding place, shooting in Moran's direction.

A cry... of a woman, then shouting and a thump. 

Sherlock stopped. A bush separated him from the scene, only the bullet had gotten through but he knew Moran was dead. He carefully retreated when he heard the versant voice. Oh, it cut deeper than any wound Sachnow might have inflicted, but Sherlock dared not to show himself. His task was done. They were all safe now. He calmed down. 

“Molly!” John cried. The bullet had hit her chest and gone right through. John examined it. She had a chance. Police sirens rang distantly. 

Everything came back, the blood, all the blood around Sherlock's face, but now they would not drag him away. ”I won't leave you alone, Molly.They can't make me this time.”

John remembered his anger, yes, they would not let him see Sherlock again. Why? Why had there been so much blood around his head?

The ambulance came and relieved him of pressing her wound. “Thank you, sir, you did great so far.” The medic took her pulse. 

“It's weak.” John said.

“You probably saved her life.” the medic answered.

 _'That's what I do.'_ John thought. 

_Why couldn't I save yours?_

He did not leave her side until they had stabilised her, though that meant putting a tube down her throat and ventilate her artificially. The ambulance rolled away, sirens wailing. 

“John!” 

He turned around. Lestrade.

“Are you all right?!” the inspector asked.

John nodded, still confused and surprised to see him. “You've gotten here awfully quick. What's going on Greg? Who shoots at a woman in a green house?”

Lestrade extended his hand. “I'll show you.” They walked across the path into another plant area. There lay a dead body, and blood, not so much.

“This is the man who was shooting at her.” Lestrade said.

“Who shot **him**?” 

Lestrade looked over John's head where the marksman had been a few minutes ago. 

“We're on it.” he said short-spoken. “You better see how Molly does, I'll inform you.”

This did not make sense. Who was this man and why would he shoot Molly in a green house? John's head swam, he had to get out of here. Answers could wait, Molly could not.

He arrived at the hospital in pretty bad shape but he had to see her again. He would not abandon her. And they let him in. 

_'Why was I not allowed to see you?'_

She lay in ICU, still breathing through a machine. John entered the room. A nurse was checking her parameters, the bandage around her shoulder was marked red. It was still bleeding.

“She will be fine.” the nurse said. 

John nodded and when she left the room he examined her himself. “Molly, I'm here.” he whispered, carefully opening her eyes and checking their reactions. They worked just fine. Her pulse was still weak, blood pressure, too, but steady. 

A knock on the door. Lestrade entered. “You can look up all her results and examination papers. She is a crime victim. I can give you that much.” 

John nodded. So it was no accident. Though still in shock he was glad he could at least do something.

_'They did not let me do anything when you died'_

“Come to my office tomorrow, if you want to.”

“I will.” John said, turning towards Molly again. He sat down, holding her hand until ICU closed for visitors.

_Molly almost died. Why? JW_

_I am so sorry, John! SH_


	12. Chapter 12

 

John woke up two times, always seeing Molly fall to the ground. At 2 am he called the ICU. Her condition had not changed. At least it had not gotten worse. He lay down again but sleep eluded him. He switched on the TV, listening to the soothing babble of night-time TV-shows, dozing off a bit.

At six he dressed. Greg had promised answers. There was still time until his office opened so John decided to pay Molly an early visit.

 

Papers lay open in her room. Thanks, Greg! John immersed himself in the results. The bleeding had stopped. Her parameters stabilised. 

John sighed. 

Lab results returned to normal. Her lungs worked properly. You lucky girl! 

The morning nurse opened the door. “Oh, I did not see your friend leave.”

John frowned. “My friend?” 

“Well, he was here most of the night. Special permission.” she said.

_Lestrade_ , John thought, though it was not like Greg to sit at her bedside rather than working with his men to complete the case. John dismissed the thought. “How is she?”

“The doctor will come and tell you, sir.” she answered.

“Of course.” John said, standard procedure.

The young woman with the blue smock overall of ICU and the stethoscope, who came in, looked tired. “Doctor Anne Marsten.” She shook his hand.

“Doctor Watson.”

“Oh, a colleague.” she replied.

He never liked to brag with his title but this way he may get more detailed informations.

“At first her condition didn't change but when this man came and sat beside her, well, maybe he was close to her. At least the wound stopped bleeding.” she said.

John swallowed. 

“Her life signs have stabilized ever since.” the doctor added.

John looked at Molly. The ventilator machine wheezed regularly in the background.

He had to get to Lestrade. Who was this man? John took his jacket. “That is good news, thank you, doctor.”

“You're welcome.” she said affectionately and left him. 

John took Molly's hand a last time and kissed her forehead. “Brave girl, I will come back.”

 

*****

 

John marched through the door of the police station as if he was at home. He had been, once, in a way. Now it seemed strange to see all these people, busy with work. 

He sat in a chair fiddling with his phone, waiting for his call. 

 

_I'm here again, where are you? JW_

 

“John!” Greg shouted and walked towards him. “Come into my office!” he added, directing him harshly into it.

“Well?” he started. “Where to begin?” Lestrade said, scratching his chin.

“Have you been in the hospital last night?” John asked.

Lestrade hesitated then he shook his head. He exhaled audibly. “John, I can't do this.”

“You can't do what? What is going on here?”

“There is someone else who can tell you better.” Lestrade said with a voice full of capitulation. “Will you see him?

John lacked any more words. 

Lestrade pulled together. “Don't be afraid, he sits in one of our interrogation rooms. You will soon understand why.” 

Greg led the way. 

_Why did they not let me through to your body?_

 

The door opened. A small lamp lit the table where a dark figure loomed over an IPhone. 

John's phone beeped. An automated habit forced him to look at it instantly.

 

_I'm here, John! SH_

 

And then the man looked up.

 

_*_

 

John fainted. The man caught him, lifting him up in his arms opening the door of the interrogation room. John seemed small in his hands, he thought, fragile. The work chatter fell silent when Sherlock Holmes carried John Watson to a visitors couch.

 

Lestrade gasped. Then he called: “Everybody out. You take all an early break. Let's go.” People began to move, still astonished by the scene. “Liberton, you too. There is nothing to see here. Out, out.”

 

The office emptied and then the silence was only broken by the breathing of two men, one breath agitated, one rather shallow. Sherlock just sat there, John's body pressed against his, their faces almost touching. He absorbed the image. 

_'Oh, John!'_ Sherlock stroked the soldiers hair. It was him.

John stirred and opened his eyes.

Sherlock did not let go. 

“Sherlock?” he whispered.

“Yes, John.”

“Sherl...”

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.” his voice faded and the tears took over. Suddenly he stood on the roof again, seeing John from afar, hearing his voice while his vision got blurred by the same tears that were now dripping from his cheeks.

 

John realised at once that this was not a dream. 

He actually lay on his dead friend, well not dead, apparently. He freed himself from his embrace then the emotions took over. “You are dead!” … “Greg!” he shouted. John had to get up, he wanted to flee from this ghost. He sprang from the couch. “You killed me, Sherlock!” … “GREG!”

Sherlock sat unmoving, whatever John said, he would take it. 

Lestrade entered the office again.

“Did you know this?” John cried.

“Only two days ago.” Greg answered.

John turned back at Sherlock. “What have you done?” Then he left the room.

 

“Will you please follow him!” Sherlock said, rubbing his temples.

“You've got some nerves.” Lestrade said, following John anyway.

 

He leaned against the wall, panting when Lestrade found him. “You better run! God knows who points a gun at **your** head next time.” he said.

“Will you hear him out, John? He saved your life and mine, and your houselady's.” 

John looked up. 

“Go to him and listen, will ya, I have a station to run.” Lestrade said and went back into the building.

John could not go inside again. He felt naked and cold. He needed to be somewhere safe, badly.

 

He went to Baker Street 221b. John wanted to feel at home, wanted to check on Mrs Hudson. Someone had threatened her, too, and he did not know this. He knew nothing. 

 

His feet got heavy, thoughts falling apart. 

 

Sherlock had carried it all alone. 

 

Cars honked because he accidentally stepped out onto the street, his senses betraying him. His rage faded. He panted, his heart racing. _I need to sit down._ He felt desperate. 

 

John found the house, still looking the same. He rang the bell.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door. John looked at her. A moment of realisation passed between them. “It's so nice to see you, Mrs. Hudson. I just needed to come here.” He had left her, too, but she did not falter.

They hugged.“Please come in! You go upstairs while I make us tea.” she said.

“Thank you!” he replied, walking through the door, reluctantly taking the steps up to their former living room. 

John opened it. 

Everything looked as if he had just left for a walk. He heard her talking downstairs but he only had eyes for all the details in this room. Time had stopped here and his presence wound the clock up again.

Mrs Hudson brought tea. “Please sit down.” she said, dusting the chair a little. He fell into it, looking over to the skull that still sat on the ledge of the chimney. They just lingered for awhile and drank tea.

“Sherlock is alive.” he said as if he just announced a weather forecast.

She began to weep. 

John went over to her, squeezing her shoulder “I'm sorry.”, when the bell rang. 

Mrs. Hudson got up. “I go. You wait here.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, releasing her. 

She nodded and went downstairs. 

He heard her talking. “He is upstairs.” 

John tensed. Did she know, too? Footsteps approached the room. 

“May I come in?”said a deep, raspy voice.

 

The door opened. Sherlock stepped in.

 

John did not look up. He held his head. Everything felt heavy, everything hurt. Sherlock sank into the chair where Mrs. Hudson had sipped her tea a minute ago. He remained there and just watched him, waiting. Sherlock had played this moment in his head a thousand times. Whatever John said or did, he would take everything. Sherlock even was ready to leave forever if he could not forgive him. So they sat in silence for about an hour when John finally started crying.

 

*

 

The sobs ebbed away. Sherlock still looked at him. He had not felt anything, ever, compared to the pain in his chest right now. Sherlock might have saved John but did John even want to be saved? Sherlock could not know, he had done what he thought was right. Oh, how he wished to hear John say that he was “brilliant” again. That seemed so far away now. His heart hurt so much.

 

John gazed at him. 

 

Sherlock held it. 

 

Their eyes met. They had never held eye-contact for that long. John usually averted his gaze because he feared Sherlock might see what he really felt. Now he did not care and a strange relief washed over him. It was Sherlock! He just sat there, quiet, holding him with his eyes. The silence was deafening.

 

Sherlock got up, slowly, turning towards his friend. He went to his knees before John. “Forgive me.” he said. 

 

John stared at him. He feared that if he closed his eyes Sherlock might vanish again.

He cautiously touched his hair, one finger tracing a tiny curl, descending with his hand to his shoulder and finally drawing him close. 

Sherlock buried his head in John's lap, letting go. He was so tired. 

“Why didn't you tell me? We would have worked it out together!” John said, his voice still catching breath.

Sherlock blinked. “I had to disappear and you couldn't know. He would have killed you.”

John remembered the last hours before Sherlock fell. All the strange words and diversions made sense now. All the blood, far too much blood. He was so very tired.

 

For now it was enough to know that Sherlock was alive and that he had thrown him into all this pain to protect him. Friends protect people...

They both were exhausted, as if they had not slept for the last weeks, as if they had held their breaths until now.

 

John took Sherlock's hand “Let's go to bed.”

Sherlock obeyed. John assumed that the bedroom was untouched as well and he was right. He put Sherlock in it and lay beside him. Just hearing him breathe seemed like a miracle to John. It was enough. Sleep took them finally.

 

John woke up in the middle of the night. Screams. Where was he? Another cry beside him.

“John!” 

Then he realised he lay in Baker Street, right beside Sherlock Holmes. He jumped out of bed. Sherlock was dreaming. “John. NO!” he screamed.

John rushed to his side. “It's all right, I'm here!”

Sherlock opened his eyes, breathing heavily. He did not really wake up but he clenched John's arm. 

John returned to bed when Sherlock drew him near, cuddling to his chest. 

John let him. 

He would rather sleep with him just to ensure he was still there in the morning.

 

*

 

The clock struck eight when the smell of tea filled the flat. John found the bed empty but there was a full cup at his bedside. Sherlock sat across the room. 

“How long have you been up?” John asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Three hours twenty four minutes.” Sherlock answered.

They looked at each other. 

“I have to visit Molly.” John said, aiming for the bathroom.

“She can breathe by herself again. Tomorrow she can leave ICU.” Sherlock said.

“How do you?” 

“I've been up for three hours and twenty six minutes now.”

John sat down again. “You have been the nightly visitor, haven't you?”

Sherlock lowered his gaze. “She is the reason why I am still alive.”

“Sherlock.” John's voice cracked. “Did she know?”

Sherlock nodded. ”All the time!” 

John felt the rage welling up again but it did not come through. He would hear the whole story eventually and understand. Now all he could do was one step at a time to grasp what just happened.

John showered and dressed.

“I'll come with you.” Sherlock exclaimed. “If you let me.”

John accepted.

 

Molly lay in the hospital bed, breathing evenly when the men entered the room. She opened her eyes and smiled weakly. John smiled back but when she saw Sherlock the tears ran down her face. 

He hurried to her side, kissing her head. “I'm sorry! Thank you for everything, Molly!”

Molly whispered in Sherlock's ear. “I would do all of this again.”

“I know.” he responded, kissing her again. “Rest, Molly!” 

John pretended to study her chart but marvelled quietly at the affection Sherlock showed towards her. The past weeks had changed something. Maybe Moriarty had brought the best of them to light.

She would be fine, she had saved them both.

 

Sherlock and John left the hospital. 

“What about breakfast?” Sherlock asked.

“Sounds good.” John answered and smiled.

They walked side by side and it almost felt as if they had never stopped doing this. They found a nice restaurant. The waiter brought the card when Sherlock said: “Would you mind bringing a candle for our table?”

The young man smiled. “Of course, sir.” and vanished to present a little white light, warming the scene. 

John looked at Sherlock, amazed. “You know, a part of me never believed you were dead.” he said.

Sherlock got his phone, opening a special folder. He hit the “send” button.

John's phone beeped. 

“I know.” Sherlock said.

John took a look at his message folder, and when he realised that he just received every single answer to his texts from the past weeks he was very glad to sit safely in his chair, beside the messenger.

 

 

“What will you do now?” Sherlock asked.

“I don't know. Yell at you, kill you, hold you and never let go again. I really don't know, Sherlock.” The headache was back. “Definitely something where you are very near me.”

They laughed and it felt good. No matter how hurt and mad he was at Sherlock, in a world where Sherlock Holmes was alive he could not stay away from him. John wanted these last weeks back. He wanted to listen to Sherlock's story and be very, very close to him.

 

 

 


End file.
